


when you hold me in the street, when you kiss me on the dance floor

by ships_to_sail



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Firsts, Hand Jobs, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s09e06 Face It You're Gorgeous, Prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail
Summary: "Ian’s brain is still processing what this mean when his body decides that it doesn’t fucking care. He’s always known one singular, solitary truth — Mickey."Five firsts and one last in the lives and love of Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	when you hold me in the street, when you kiss me on the dance floor

**Author's Note:**

> an infinity of love to [didipickles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/didipickles/pseuds/didipickles) and [lilbitalexis](https://lilbitalexis.tumblr.com/), who, as always deserve the best things in the world.
> 
> this was beta'd by [storieswelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storieswelove/pseuds/storieswelove), who doesn't even go here, and is still the best beta and pocket pal in the universe.

“I got bottom. Means you’re on top,” Mickey says, stretching his legs out into a single, long line. He tucks his hands at the base of his neck, elbows wide. He runs his lower lip over his teeth and stares at him. Ian can’t breathe, can’t force his lungs to take a breath. Because holy  _ fuck  _ it’s Mickey. The last time he saw Mickey he was headed to Mexico, the kick of red dust in the wind as blinding at pain in Mickey’s voice when he’d  _ begged  _ Ian to just get in the car. And in that moment Ian had made his peace with whatever scrap of a thing called ‘God’ had decided a long time ago to fuck up his life at every possible turn. He had his family, and the acolytes, and if he couldn’t have a brain that worked and the only man he’d ever loved, at least he could ride out his time in prison and try to just. Make his life work again. 

The last thing he’d ever thought to plan on was Mickey fucking Milkovich showing up again, which was probably the exact reason he was lying on Ian’s bunk, in lock-up, yellow jumpsuit and tender smirk like dueling beacons of hope in a world normally set on being so god damned dark. Ian’s brain is still processing what this mean when his body decides that it doesn’t fucking care. He’s always known one singular, solitary truth — Mickey. 

He hops down onto the lower bunk and manages not to bash his skull against the concrete slab above them. He’s got the smallest smile tucked on his face, because he’s still not sure he believes any of this is happening and that all of Monica’s genes haven’t gotten the best of him at last. One hand lands on Mickey’s wrist while the other comes to his cheek, thumb tracing along Mickey’s cheekbone. There are new scars that Ian doesn’t recognize, and there’s a dip in his stomach as the thought of all that time apart pulls at him. But he pushes the thought away, because they’re here. Now. And Mickey is looking at him so softly, his hand coming to wrap around Ian, landing lightly at the back of his neck.

Mickey pulls slightly, pads of his fingers digging in just below Ian’s hairline, and Ian clenches his jaw, pushing back with the slightest pressure. It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss Mickey. Fuck, he wants to kiss Mickey more than he’s ever want to do anything in his entire fucking life. But the way Mickey’s looking at him, eyes brushing over every line of his features, burning into the planes of Ian’s face like he’s memorizing the moment. Ian thinks, if he asked, Mickey could play back their entire history together, all the times he’s looked at Ian liked that and burned their love into the ether. And he hasn’t gotten to feel that in so long, thought he’d never get to feel it again, that he just doesn’t want it to stop yet. 

But he’s never been able to resist Mickey for long. Their noses brush and then, more slowly than Ian would’ve thought possible, their lips press together, Ian’s lips softening and molding to Mickey’s. Fingers press more firmly into his hair as Mickey licks gently along the seam of Ian’s lips. The whole thing is slow, and unhurried, and Ian can’t help think of all the times they’ve had before that were full of fists and fury and the threat of time. For the first time in longer than he cares to think about, he doesn’t feel the press of the minutes moving forward, the frantic, desperate clawing to stay in a moment he feels like he’s about to lose. 

Mickey’s tongue presses up into his mouth and Ian’s fingers dig into the bone where they’re still wrapped around Mickey’s wrist. Mickey’s hip thrust up, just once, unhurried and hot, and Ian grinds his hips down to meet him. He kisses Mickey harder, a flash of teeth that gets Mickey growling, low and deep. Ian swallows the sound and it drips down the back of his throat like honey. Mickey hooks the leg closest to the door around Ian, tucking the toes of his foot around Ian’s calf like an anchor. It brings their hips infinitesimally closer together, erections hot and hard and pressing under the thin layer of jumpsuit. 

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey growls into his ear, hand at the base of Ian’s neck threading into his hair and pulling, wrenching Ian’s jaw back enough that he’s able to drag his teeth over Ian’s pulse point, to bite down gently on his Adam’s apple.

Ian closes his eyes and whispers, “Mickey.” Only it comes out sounding more like a moan, and the sound is loud enough that it echoes off the walls that box them in on three sides. Mickey does it again, pressing his teeth a fraction of an inch deeper into Ian’s skin before he presses his lips to the spot in a tender kiss meant to take away some of the sting. Ian doesn’t have to look to know that his skin is berry-pink, spreading out from Mickey’s teeth-marks like a wine stain. The color probably paints half his throat, based on the way Mickey can’t keep his eyes in one spot, and Ian chuckles, dark and throaty.

“I missed you,” Mickey says, a sincere little whisper that Ian won’t be able to forget for the rest of his life. It works its way under his skin, into his DNA, so that it’s a part of him. 

“I missed you, too,” he says, before seizing Mickey’s lips in another bruising kiss. Mickey’s hand clenches beneath Ian’s, the veins in his wrist pressing into the rough palm of Ian’s flesh. He can feel Mickey’s pulse, the snare-drum rhythm of his heart beating dangerously fast. His pupils, when they finally pull apart, are entirely black and threaten to swallow his eyes.

“I want you.” Mickey thrusts his hips again in time with his words.

“I know. I want you, too.” Ian drops a hand to Mickey’s hip, digging his fingers in until he knows he’ll see a bruise tomorrow. Mickey’s hips buck again and he hisses out a “fuck” that pierces straight through Ian’s softest parts, the parts that have spent the last months —  _ years —  _ missing Mickey. “I don’t want to share you, Mick. With them, out there. I need — can you keep quiet for me?”

Mickey just quirks the side of his mouth and lifts his eyebrows and  _ fuck  _ Ian’s missed him. Missed his dick and his hands and the dimple that falls high on his cheek. “When’re you gonna learn that I can do anything you need, Gallagher?”

There’s a force that wells up in Ian’s chest that threatens to break him open, and he thinks he might just come apart at the seams, so he bends forward and, finally pulling his hand off of Mickey’s wrist, cups his cheeks with two gentle palms. He lets his fingers rub gentle circles into Mickey’s temple, play with the short hair that falls right above his ears, float along the shell of Mickey’s ears. The other man lets his eyes drift closed, a breath escaping in a little huff that makes it sound like he’s just put down a weight he didn’t know he was carrying. His shoulders start to relax away from his ears, his body going liquid beneath Ian’s warmth and weight. 

Ian’s head drops, placing a single, soft kiss to the pale skin of Mickey's throat, right above his pulse point. One hand slides from his cheek down along the line of his throat. His fingers trace over the vein in his neck, along the V of his collarbone, across the broad planes of Mickey’s chest under the rough fabric of his bright yellow jumpsuit. He takes the time to stop at Mickey’s hip, wrapping his long fingers around the narrow jut of bone, pressing into the meat at the top of Mickey’s ass, as his thumb trails along the cut of his upper thigh. Mickey lets out a shuddering sigh and in a voice that’s barely above a whisper he says, “You’re killing me, Ee.”

“Good.” Ian smiles, a wicked little slice of his mouth as he does it again, a slow drag of his thumb over the sensitive valley between Mickey’s thigh and hip bone. He catches Mickey’s eye as his hand continues to wander between them, slipping down and popping open a few of the snaps on Mickey’s jumpsuit. The little metal click resonates between them and it’s like the snap of a starting gun. 

Mickey catches his lower lip between his teeth as he presses up into the flat of Ian’s palm as it glides over the top of his black boxer-briefs. There’s a growing damp spot on the front, and Ian’s thumb traces it in a circle, dragging his thumb along the slit and pulling it away, damp. He rests it lightly against the line where Mickey’s teeth are digging into his lip, and Mickey immediately opens his mouth and sucks Ian’s thumb inside. Mickey bites down on Ian’s knuckle and Ian jumps, his head banging against to top bunk as a high-pitch little squeak escapes. Mickey snorts, loud and sharp, and Ian glares at him as he pulls his thumb out of Mickey’s mouth.

“That hurt, you asshole.”

“Good,” Mickey says, returning Ian’s impish little grin as Ian just shakes his head and ducks in for another kiss. Mickey starts the kiss smiling, but it doesn’t take long for his lips to mold to Ian’s like he was made to fit there. Ian presses his tongue into the back of Mickey’s throat, attempts to kiss him deeply enough to take the sting off all the missed kisses stacked up like poker chips behind them. Mickey presses back, tangling their tongues together as Ian's hand slides back to the opening in Mickey's jumpsuit. 

Their height difference and the angle makes it weird, but after a few seconds of wrestling and readjusting, Ian manages to get a hand cupped over Mickey's dick through the thin fabric of his underwear. The other hand drifts to the front of Mickey's neck, the heel of Ian's palm resting in the hollow of Mickey's throat. Mickey's eyes go dark as Ian shifts so that he's sitting more on his hip, his grip on Mickey firm but not painful.

"You good?" Ian asks, his voice soft as his hand begins to stroke along the length of Mickey. He reaches down and cups his balls, tugging gently, before running the flat of his palm over the head.

Mickey huffs. "Never fucking better." He meets Ian's eyes and there are layers of  _ something _ buried there, big eternities of something that Ian can't wait to understand. "Fuck, Ian. I…" he trails off and shakes his head, just a fraction of an inch, and Ian nods. 

"I know, Mickey." He kisses him again as he slips one hand underneath the elastic waistband of Mickey's underwear and finally,  _ finally _ , feels the shape and weight of him again. Ian sighs, a low shuddering breath, as he pumps his hand once, slowly. A low groan escapes Mickey's mouth as his head falls back heavy against the concrete. "Shhh," Ian whispers, the fingers on either side of Mickey's neck squeezing gently.

Mickey nods and bites down on his lower lip, his eyes closed and his breath coming fast and heavy through his nose. The hand around Mickey's cock moves again, and again, Ian picking up speed as he swipes a thumb over the head where Mickey’s leaking precome. Ian can feel vibrations under the palm of his hand that's pressed against Mickey's throat, a subaural hum that would be an absolutely glorious sound if Ian could hear it.

They're both panting, the only sound in the space between them the slick, hot sound of flesh on flesh and the staccato breathing volleying between them. Ian’s dick is painfully hard, and he does what he can to roll back towards Mickey until the jut of his hip, and the angle of his thigh, combines with the friction of Ian’s jumpsuit and he starts to grind down on Mickey, dry-humping him like they’re fifteen again and desperate to get off without waking Mandy or Terry or the whole god damn neighborhood. Mickey can be so loud when he’s unrestrained. 

Ian’s strokes pick up speed, and his wrist twists as he squeezes at the head, a move he knows Mickey loves. Because he knows Mickey, and Mickey’s body, and how to take him apart in a million tender, filthy, perfect ways. Mickey’s making a low keening sound, his teeth digging so fiercely into his lip that Ian’s afraid he’s going to draw blood. He slides his hand up Mickey’s throat and nudges at Mickey’s teeth with his thumb until Mickey opens his mouth. Ian slides two fingers inside and Mickey wraps his tongue around his fingertips and hollows his cheeks, pulling Ian’s fingers into his mouth. 

Ian fucks his fingers slowly in and out of Mickey’s mouth, let’s his eyes flutter closed as he focuses on the combination of steady, sucking pressure on his fingers and the reckless, frantic movements of his hips, the drag of his cock across Mickey’s body. He thrusts his fingers deeper and Mickey gags, a fluttering of his throat that Ian’s felt on his dick more times than he knows, and he’s about to come when he feels the cry in Mickey’s throat and he’s coming over Ian’s knuckles, down the back of his hand and onto the inside of his underwear as Ian pulls his fingers from Mickey’s mouth and slows his pace, milking Mickeys through his orgasm. 

Mickey licks his lips, and when he speaks his voice is absolutely wrecked. “Let me...I wanna —” Words are failing him, so Mickey just placed a hand to Ian’s chest and pushes him on his back. He reaches down and wraps his hand around Ian, around the head of his own cock, scooping up what come didn’t end up soaking into the cotton before he rips open Ian’s jumpsuit so hard they hear a button snap. He jams his hand into Ian’s boxers, pulling his cock through the slit in the front, and the feeling of Mickey’s come coating his roughened palms and calloused fingers is better than anything Ian has felt with any of his other partners. He doesn’t know what the magic of Mickey Milkovich is, even now, but he already knows he’s willing to spend the rest of his life trying to find out. 

“Fuck, Mickey,” he groans, his voice low, catching on the last syllable of Mickey name as his hips buck and Mickey drags Ian’s cock slowly through his hand. 

“You’re so god damn pretty, Gallagher. Where the fuck you get off looking like that, Carrot Top, all sweaty and blown out and.  _ Fuck _ .” The way Mickey’s voice bends around the last word matches the way his thumb drags over the slit of Ian’s cock at the same moment that he comes, and Ian doesn’t know how it happens, doesn’t see the geometry Mickey goes through to make it happen, but Ian feels Mickey’s lips wrap around the tip of Ian’s cock and suck. He thinks maybe he whites out, because the next thing he consciously feels is the gentle lap of Mickey’s tongue as his body wrings out the last of his orgasm. Mickey cleans him up and tucks him gently back into his underwear before sliding back up his body and resting his head on Ian’s chest.

Ian watches him suck come off his fingers, lick it gently off his palm, like a cat with cream, and it’s hot enough that the image carves itself into the deepest recesses of his mind. Ian closes his eyes and feels his heart finally slow in his chest as his breath evens out. “Fuck, I missed you,” he says, and he knows without saying that they’re bothing thinking of the same moment — a blanket, warm beers, the expanse of desert sky barely big enough to hold all the things they weren’t saying to each other. 

Mickey nuzzles closer into his chest and says, “Yeah, I know. I missed you, too.” And Ian doesn’t hear it so much as he feels it, the shape of it pressed into the skin just above his collarbone. Mickey follows it up with a gentle nip at the slope of Ian’s neck, right where it meets the shoulder, his neck stretching to reach. And Ian has missed this part of Mickey more than anything, his ability to be the knife wrapped in cotton, a blend of the Southside street rat they’d both grown up being and the kind of caring, consistently aware adult Mickey had always worked to be when it was just the two of them. It was the puzzle piece he'd been missing, and he felt it slot into place as they both drifted off to sleep, curled around each other in the thin prison bunk. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from ["Secret Love Song, Pt. 2"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIwPhXaflow) by Little Mix, a one of the most Them songs I've ever heard.


End file.
